


Feels Like Home To Me

by eosaurora13



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 16:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eosaurora13/pseuds/eosaurora13
Summary: In which Crowley has to process things and Aziraphale has to find what he hasn't allowed himself to look for





	Feels Like Home To Me

Aziraphale could almost wander through his bookshop and forget that it had burned. With the exception of a handful of books, which had decidedly _not_ been here before, everything was in its proper place. His first editions and misprints. His rotary phone and his gramophone. The alcohol stash he kept in the back for when Crowley was in a mood. Even the old computer that he turned on once a decade to see if it still worked. 1 Only the faint, acrid scent of smoke – something even the Antichrist, with the power to manipulate reality, couldn’t remove – spoke of that horrible event.

At least the summoning sigil that had so inconveniently discorporated him had vanished. He doubted he had the mental fortitude to either miracle it away or find some good, old fashioned elbow grease to clean it up. He would have to remember the conversation that preceded it and, well, that wasn’t going to happen.

Crowley had walked him home after their dinner at the Ritz and had lingered late into the night, both of them nursing several glasses of wine. The conversation had remained superficial – everything they should have said, needed to say, left for another time. All of those words sat just under Aziraphale’s skin, writhing around like snakes. Even after Crowley had left, with one last look 2, he could barely contain everything he wanted to say.

Now, he couldn’t sit still. The excuse to check each and every crevice of his shop was the perfect cover. He dallied, and he dithered, flitting from bookcase to bookcase, examining and rearranging with no aim in mind. 

“Y’know, angel, if you walk between those two displays one more time, the floor’ll give out.”

Aziraphale startled, his hand instinctively covering his heart, which had leapt forward at an alarming speed. “Crowley,” he admonished. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Crowley smiled easily, sharp at all the wrong corners. “All the books back in their proper place?”

Aziraphale found himself nodding. “Except for,” he motioned at the set of red-spined, hardback books by the window, “those. A gift from Adam, I suppose.”

Crowley hummed, not quite an agreement but not outright anything else either.

“What brings you here?” Aziraphale asked. Realizing how that could sound, he backtracked. “Not that I’m not glad you _are_ here, but it’s a bit early for you, isn’t it?” 3

A shrug was the only answer Crowley seemed willing to give.

To anyone not well versed in all things Crowley, the subtle glances about the bookshop – especially given Crowley’s eyes were hidden behind those ridiculous glasses – would have gone unnoticed. Aziraphale noticed them right off. “Couldn’t sleep.” 4

“Is that the I-want-to-stay-in couldn’t sleep or the let’s-go-get-brunch-together couldn’t sleep?” Aziraphale asked, fully expecting the latter. The bookshop was typically reserved for after the meal, as a safe haven to get well and thoroughly smashed should the situation require.

Another shrug. Crowley draped himself over one of the few lounge chairs in the main area of the shop. And stared at the ceiling.

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to say something – anything. His hand itched to do something – he couldn’t keep worrying the same worn thread – so he turned back to his straightening.

He straightened up a bookshelf. 

And another.

And another.

He’d almost forgotten about Crowley entirely 5 and turned to find him still in the chair, his eyes trained somewhere _else_. 

The words they’d left unsaid threatened to burst out like water from a busted dam. It took all of Aziraphale’s will to keep his mouth shut – this was not the moment to have a heart to heart. Or maybe it was. It was hard to tell with Crowley sometimes.

“Crowley? Everything all right?”

Crowley’s attention slowly shifted to him, but no emotions played across his face. He kept it purposefully blank. Instead, he rose to his feet, walking to the front door as if with the intention to leave.

Aziraphale’s heart skittered, a record jumping off the track. “Crowley?” he tried again. He couldn’t bear it if Crowley walked out now. Though, he was well within his rights after Aziraphale had abandoned him not once, but twice. No, Aziraphale thought, three times, as he remembered his inconvenient discorporation. 

Crowley spun, some retort already distorting his face, but when faced with Aziraphale’s quiet desperation, he faltered. “This – I – it-it’s not helping.”

And he left, the door softly latching behind him.

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

Aziraphale stood rooted to the floor, unable to tear his eyes away from the space that Crowley had just occupied. The bone-deep ache that he’d grown more familiar with after pushing Crowley away settled back into all his nooks and crevices, but it was different this time. The shape was all wrong. And confusion lay above it, Aziraphale trying and failing to parse out what exactly Crowley was talking about.

He glanced around the shop. Its loss had shaken him to his core, every muscle twitching – demanding to do _something_. And, he was well within his rights to stay at the shop and inventory everything one more time. He could be forgiven for that desire. Had this occurred prior to the final showdown of the Armageddon that wasn’t, he wouldn’t have entertained any other option. 

But there were other options available to him, now that he no longer had to fear Heaven discovering his relationship with Crowley.

He should have struggled with the decision, but – well, it was quite simple really 6.

Following in Crowley’s steps, he too left the bookshop, but he took care to lock the door before scanning the street for any sign of Crowley or the Bentley. 

The street was painfully empty of anything Aziraphale cared about, people milling about as if the world hadn’t almost ended. With no good leads on where to look, Aziraphale turned in the vague direction of Crowley’s flat. It was a place to start if Crowley was feeling…well, Crowley-ish. 

A small miracle and he would have been there instantly. 

He chose to walk.

Pedestrians did move out of his way without consciously knowing why.

He received no answer when he rang the bell at the flat. This, in and of itself, was not the most unusual occurrence. Crowley could disappear for years at a time, decades if the mood struck him, and Aziraphale had learned the hard way he was not one to answer the door. However, the night – was it only two nights ago? – Crowley had finally, _finally_ , invited him over – _You can stay at my place, if you like_ – he had shown Aziraphale how to miracle the locks open 7. They still responded to his touch.

But the flat was empty. 

He searched every room, the memories of his night there still occupying the forefront of his mind. After the events of _that_ day, they were simply the topping of surreal on top of all the other surrealness. His eyes fell on the sofa Crowley had miracled up for them to relax on, a beacon of comfort in an otherwise spartan space. How badly he had wanted to press up against Crowley and lay his head on his shoulder. 

A voice, one sounding suspiciously like Crowley, asked why the Heaven he hadn’t.

He sighed, his fingers finding a loose thread on his vest and twisting and untwisting. He didn’t have a good answer. The ready excuse about Heaven and Hell – about him being an angel and Crowley a demon – was no longer adequate, which left him adrift.

“Oh, dear, where have you gone?” he murmured, half to himself and half to Crowley, who, of course, wasn’t around to either hear him or answer. 

There were, thankfully, other places in and around London Crowley could retreat to, ones that Aziraphale had paid attention to – it was sometimes hard not to. He could try those.

The handful of bars and clubs that he’d found Crowley particular to over the years weren’t an option. Most were nighttime establishments, and it was barely ten in the morning. 8

He stopped outside the most recent one – the one he’d found Crowley in, he thought, after his discorporation. Seeing as a spirit didn’t work quite the same as with a body. It was all swirls and vague shapes and colors, half in this plane of existence and half not. He hadn’t even known where to look to “see” Crowley. The best he could do was listen – his hearing had worked perfectly. 

Crowley had been drunk. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence in and of itself – Crowley loved alcohol, as much or more than Aziraphale – but he was far drunker than Aziraphale had ever seen him. His voice breaking as he said he’d lost his best friend _ached._

Aziraphale hadn’t thought at the time – still didn’t – that Crowley was referring to him. That made no sense. Of course, Crowley had called them friends in the heat of anger. It was a slip of the tongue, brought on by desperation. Something to draw Aziraphale into his plan.

He certainly wasn’t Crowley’s _best_ friend.

The thought hurt more than he anticipated.

His heart sank as he stared through the darkened windows then up at the sky. It was approaching midday, and Crowley was still as gone as he’d been at the start of his search. 

He thought back to Crowley’s untimely departure, searching for anything he missed. Crowley hadn’t quite been himself in the bookshop, something about being there irritating rather than comforting. Had it been there last night? 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure – there had been a lot of alcohol involved – and neither had cared to sober up before parting. He turned instinctively, as if to bounce his ideas off Crowley, and wilted to see only emptiness beside him.

At a lost, he wandered aimlessly, letting his feet take him where they might. 

He knew the streets of Soho like the back of his hand 9. It wasn’t hard to follow them, turning at certain intersections as he would. 

The street he had dropped in on Crowley, after relenting on the whole holy water issue, was one he usually avoided. It held too many memories – and far too many emotions. He had rarely sought Crowley out over the centuries– the demon usually found him in his times of need, or they ran across each other by sheer happenstance. That night in 1967 though, he had. The thought of Crowley risking his life – his very existence – disturbed him as few things could. He hadn’t picked at that particular scab too hard, knowing he was in no way capable of handling the gaping wound that lie underneath.

Handing the thermos to Crowley was as much of an admission as he could make, to the both of them. _You go to fast for me, Crowley_. Oh, and how Crowley had crumbled at those words. The glasses hadn’t hidden anything.

He knew, _oh he knew_ , but Heaven held him back. Anything he felt, anything he realized in those small gestures, he buried. 

But Heaven no longer deserved his obedience, so, as his search for Crowley turned desperate, he allowed those emotions to the surface. Freedom from Heaven’s judgment and oppression was worthless without the full acknowledgment of _why_ he was free.

Aziraphale tried At St. James’ Park, searching the paths they’d tread countless times. As he stood by the pond, he thought about asking the ducks, but his mind kept drifting to Crowley’s weird obsession in the nineteenth century with ducks having ears. Which invariably led to the rest of that particular conversation. Crowley’s practically snarling _Fraternizing?_ echoing in his ears, because, of course, that hadn’t been the proper word for them. There wasn’t one word for what Crowley meant to him, but if he ever found him, he’d try his best.

The last places Aziraphale thought to look were their alternate meeting spots – those reserved for days when shit hit the fan. The first two came up empty, just as everywhere else had.

Which left only one more place to look.

The bandstand too had been one of their usual meeting spots, but their last encounter – so fraught with desperation and anger – had soured it for Aziraphale. If Crowley wasn’t there, Aziraphale would have no choice but to return to the bookshop to wait and hope his demon was all right. There wouldn’t be anything else to do – the universe was quite an expansive place, after all.

As he approached, his feet weighed him down – he struggled to put one in front of the other. He was still an angel, that much he knew, but here was where, in his eyes, he had committed a sin worth Falling for. Even thinking about that conversation sent him reeling, the lies he had shielded himself with still ash in his mouth. _There is no our side, Crowley. Not anymore._

Crowley had walked away, but Aziraphale had _pushed._

And for what? For the foolish hope that Heaven would listen to a lowly angel’s protests?

There was one constant in his life, one person in whom he could always place his trust. Relief flooded his veins, and his breath left him in a rush, at the sight of that person’s lanky frame leaning against one of the pillars. He blinked away tears that threatened to fall.

“Hey there, angel,” Crowley slurred.

Aziraphale only saw the bottle hanging limply in his grip, as he rounded the corner. “Oh, Crowley.”

“I couldn’t – couldn’t be in the shop,” came the broken explanation. “Kept seeing it burn-burning.”

His shop burning? Had Crowley been there? He hadn’t said anything, except to remind him – very, very gently – that it _had_ burned. 

“And,” Crowley continued, “you were gone.” He waved the bottle in a wide arc. “Thought the bastards had got you too,” he muttered, his voice cracking.

Several things settled into place at once, fitting between the short conversations over the past days – and their interactions over the past six millennia, and the world, to Aziraphale, _shifted_. What could he do in the face of such pain and longing? He physically ached because of the distance between them, but he crossed the bandstand with a purposeful stride and sank to the ground beside Crowley.

Crowley rolled his head sideways and offered Aziraphale the bottle, alcohol exaggerating his movements.

“No, thank you. I think one of us should be sober right now.”

Behind those infernal glasses, Crowley’s eyes narrowed.

Carefully looking away, Aziraphale said, “I wasn’t aware you saw it burn.”

“How else did ya think I knew about it?” Crowley motioned erratically. “There were fl- fire – fire, everywhere. And water. From the hoses.” He inhaled, harsh and grating. 

Words alone couldn’t ease the horrors Crowley had seen – that much Aziraphale knew. Even spending time in the fully restored shop hadn’t done that. Not for either of them. 

But he could meet Crowley where he hadn’t been willing to do so before. He reached for Crowley’s empty hand, laced their fingers together. 

Crowley started at the contact, staring at their hands with wide eyes. He turned that gaze, so full of shock and wonder, to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale’s chest constricted painfully. How many times had Crowley gazed at him like that – both seen and unseen – that he had so willfully ignored? 

They both deserved so much more. 

And now? Now, he found the courage to offer it.

“I think I’ve said too many wrong things over the years,” he started. “And I – I’d like to take them all back.” He chanced a glance up at Crowley. “If I may.”

Crowley had gone stock still.

It was difficult, at first, to put everything into words, to start at the beginning and retrace every conversation and action to admit his mistakes. He’d made quite a few, he was coming to realize.

Through it all, Crowley listened. Though his face stayed slack, as if trying to process what was happening, he squeezed Aziraphale’s hand encouragingly when he faltered.

“I lied to you,” Aziraphale confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, “when I said we weren’t friends. I – I had hoped that someone upstairs would listen, but no one did. Except you, of course.” He heaved a sigh. “You were right, all along, and I can’t – I couldn’t – “

Crowley shushed him with a gesture reminiscent of the one he used after the Armageddon-that-wasn’t. Except, this time, Crowley’s finger brushed against his lips. “Angel,” Crowley murmured, all trace of inebriation gone, “shut up.”

Aziraphale felt the stream of words spilling out of his mouth dry up. Before his eyes, Crowley’s sharp edges faded away. “Is this our side now?” he whispered.

The sound that tore out of Crowley’s throat was a wounded, wild thing. His arms snaked up around Aziraphale and pulled him close. He clung to Aziraphale like a lifeline, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

Only by returning the embrace did Aziraphale feel Crowley trembling. Or, perhaps, he was the one trembling. He curled his fingers into the fabric of Crowley’s shirt. 

And held on.

How long they sat there, Aziraphale couldn’t say. His world had narrowed to a single point. He held the only thing that mattered.

Crowley mumbled something into his shoulder.

Aziraphale pulled back slightly, not enough to break contact by any means. “What was that?”

Crowley froze, then burst into motion, drawing away to fully look at Aziraphale – though he kept one hand resting against his neck, tracing little designs into his skin. He dragged his glasses off his face in one smooth motion.

Seeing those eyes, fully snake-like for the first time since Eden 10,rippled down Aziraphale’s spine. Static cracked in the air between them, that wild energy that preceded a thunderstorm. 

He stood at a precipice. He could stay where he was, maintain the status quo – they could go back to exactly how things were before. Crowley was giving him time to back off, to tell him to stop, just as he always had – sometimes for decades, centuries even.

Aziraphale couldn’t imagine ever doing that again. If he fell, Crowley would catch him.

Whatever Crowley was looking for, whatever he hoped to see in Aziraphale’s face, he must have found. He closed the distance between them and captured Aziraphale’s lips in a searing kiss, his fingers carding through his hair and _holding._

There was no longer any need for Crowley to repeat what he’d said. He was saying it. If this was Falling, Aziraphale never wanted to stop. This was softer than his wool cardigans, warmer than a hearth fire on a cold night. It was coming home after six thousand years of wandering lost in the wilderness. 

This was forgiveness.

This was love.

Eventually, their bodies demanded oxygen, but they only partially disentangled their limbs and separated back into individual entities. They couldn’t look away from each other, Crowley gazing at Aziraphale as if he was some kind of miracle and Aziraphale doing the same. “Well then.”

“We – I guess we should – “ Crowley glanced at their surroundings, more lost than Aziraphale had ever seen him. In a way, he looked almost _young_. 

For all the times he didn’t have the right words, or had intentionally said the wrong words, Aziraphale found the right ones now, when it truly counted. Catching a tear as it fell down Crowley’s face and wiping it away, he said, “You can stay at my place, if you like.”

Crowley barked a laugh as if it had been shocked out of him. “I might take you up on that.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said. “Besides, I just found you. I’ve no intention of letting you leave.” 

Crowley rose with the grace of someone who hadn’t recently been drunk and helped Aziraphale to his feet. 

Aziraphale let Crowley take the lead on directions but, upon the realization they were walking toward the bookshop, he asked, “Are we not taking the car?” 

Crowley couldn’t quite meet Aziraphale’s gaze. He kicked at the gravel absentmindedly before admitting the Bentley was back behind his flat.

Aziraphale smiled. He’d spent the whole day on his feet. To walk with Crowley, he’d stay on them a while longer. “I don’t mind,” he assured Crowley. “It’s quite a lovely night.”

With Crowley’s arm draped over his shoulders, they left the bandstand and all the pain and anguish behind them.

“Oh, and dear? In case you were wondering, ducks _do_ technically have ears.”

Crowley skidded to a halt. Understanding dawned slowly, his eyebrows arching up as he caught up with what Aziraphale was saying. And his smile could ignite the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Though more recently, he’s had to perform small miracles for it to move faster than a glacier. It hasn’t been enough of an inconvenience to consider getting a replacement.
> 
> 2 Said look could be reliably described as longing. A blind man would have seen it – only Aziraphale could be this oblivious.
> 
> 3 Crowley was, rather notoriously, known for sleeping late. Aziraphale learned this about him sometime during the eleventh dynasty in Ancient Egypt. It wasn’t an experience he’d ever forget – take that as you might.
> 
> 4 Aziraphale’s translation: “Had a nightmare.”
> 
> 5 Which is to say, since he could never entirely forget Crowley, that his presence slipped his mind for a second or two.
> 
> 6 Simple isn’t quite right. Nothing about Aziraphale’s relationship with Crowley is simple. It is, however, a natural thing, as easy and right as falling asleep. It’s just – Aziraphale doesn’t realize it yet.
> 
> 7 A security measure, Crowley had informed him, after a recent break-in. He hadn’t specified who, or what, had done the breaking.
> 
> 8 Not that it would stop Crowley. Once Aziraphale had found him nursing a bottle of rather cheap whiskey behind the counter of a bar than had closed down almost fifty years ago. The building had been bulldozed. He never did get a good answer of how Crowley had managed that one.
> 
> 9 This made sense since Aziraphale was there when many of the streets were first laid out. His first visit to England had been during the Roman occupation, after all.
> 
> 10 At least, that Aziraphale was aware of.


End file.
